Third Chances
by Jacinda
Summary: He had taken advantage of all his second chances; his third chance was a gift. Catherine/Keppler.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own anything - I just borrow them to play occassionally.

* * *

He nearly chuckled when he realized his dying words were "I'm sorry." It, seemingly, adequately summed up his life. He was sorry about what happened to Amy, the man he killed, his ex-wife, and what Catherine was about to see. 

He opened his mouth one more time with the intention to say "Thank you, Catherine," but the darkness came too swiftly. He could still hear himself breathing; despite the fact that they were shallow, jagged breaths. They were the breaths of a dying man. They slowly spaced out until his body gave into silence.

There wasn't a bright light. There wasn't an angel, his mother, or Amy waiting for him. There was only blackness. It was the same blackness he lived most of his life in. There were a few moments of color and wonder, but tragedy always followed closely.

He looked forward to the silence, the stillness, and the darkness.

* * *

"Mike, dammit. Stay with me," I yelled as I watched the paramedics race with the gurney to the ambulance, "Please, please, please . . . stay with me."

I watched frozen in place as they began to cardiovert him. Once, twice, and a third time before they hastily called it quits. By then, Gil had a hold on my arm and was pulling me away from the ambulance. He was saying something about processing the scene. He had to have been fucking kidding me.

I could barely see through my tears. My own breaths had become shaky and jagged; much like Mike's moments before the breaths stopped altogether. I collapsed to my knees in the middle of the parking lot. Gil stood nearby confused; probably thinking that I had been sleeping with Mike. That was far from the truth.

The truth was that I understood him. His sadness was as palpable as mine. I knew what it was like to lose it all. I just appeared to have more than him, but that was a façade that I worked hard to create. Lindsey was in a girls school because I had caught her with pot, alcohol, and in a compromising position with an older boy. My mother drank herself into oblivion to forget that Sam was dead. I lived to go to work because there I could forget everything that was wrong with my personal life. Mike just wore his sadness on his sleeve.

We had gone out for drinks a few times. That was the beauty of Vegas; at 8 am, we had our choice of bars to go drown our sorrows in. I told him about Lindsey, Sam, and mom. He told my tid-bits about Amy, his mother, and his ex-wife. I watched his body tighten as he talked about the day he found Amy dead in her bedroom. It was the day he found out he was accepted into the fire-science program at the local tech school. It was supposed to be a happy day, but he said that was the loneliest day in his life. I almost began to cry, but if Amy had lived, I wouldn't have been in Mike's company.

I was attracted to him, but I never let him know. He was precise; he was polite. When he smile, though rarely, I knew he meant it. I loved the way my name seemed to hang on his lips for a few moments after he said it.

"I'm leaving. I've got to go," I said hastily as I stood up and ran to my SUV. I could hear Gil saying something, but it didn't really matter. I needed to go say good-bye to Mike. I needed some semblance of finality.

The drive to the hospital was excruciating. It was the kind of drive where all the lights seemed to turn red at same time. What normally seemed like a quick 15 minute drive, seemed to drag on for hours.

I ran into the ER. My breaths were ragged again. I told the receptionist that I needed to see Mike Keppler. I lied and said that I was his wife. She gave me one of those half smiles and said the doctor would be with me shortly.

"Ma'am, could you please come back with me. I'm Dr. Ryan. Your husband is in critical, but stable condition. We are just getting him ready to go up to surgery," a too-young appearing woman said to me. There was blood on her scrubs. I could only imagine that the blood belonged to Mike.

"I need to see him. Just once more before . . ."

"He has a breathing tube. He's connected to several IVs. We are giving him blood now. He's going to be sedated, but he'll know your there," she said sweetly as I followed her back to the trauma room.

Mike's body was whiter than anything I've ever seen before. The blood was a crimson that I don't think I'll ever be able to describe. I grasped his hand. I kissed his fingertips.

"Mike, don't you dare even think about leaving me. You have to let me thank you for saving my life. Please, please, please . . . don't leave me," I cried as I held his cool hand a little tighter. I've seen death hundreds of times; I knew that it was lingering next to Mike.

"Ma'am, we need to take him to surgery now," the doctor said.

I stepped back and in seconds the gurney was racing down the hallway. I stood in the trauma room among the debris. My simple request burned into my mind.

* * *

Dying isn't supposed to hurt, but damn, my body ached. With each breath my chest burned. At that moment, I realized that I wasn't dead. The pain was an unwelcome reminder of my body's ability to survive. Survive, so I can rot in a jail cell for the rest of my existence.

My right hand felt warm. It felt really warm. I could hear the Yankee's game on in the background. I couldn't begin to even imagine who might be holding my hand. I tried to lift my eyelids, but suddenly those felt like lead weights.

My right hand almost tingled; whoever was holding my hand was ever so gently stroking my palm. It felt like a small slice of heaven. It was the only part of my body that didn't ache.

"Ma'am, can I get you anything," a voice, probably a nurse, said.

"No, do you have any idea when he's going to wake up?"

God, it was Catherine gently stroking my hand. It felt so good. It felt so good to know that someone wanted to be by me.

"The sedation should be wearing off soon," the nurse said.

"Thank you. I just want Mike to wake up soon," Catherine said. He voice sounded so hopeful.

I could hear the nurse's footfalls down the hall. I became acutely aware of all the beeping. Probably a heart monitor, pulse ox, and God knows what else I might be hooked up to. I wondered how the hell Catherine could listen to the incessant beeping.

"Mike, come on. Please wake up," Catherine whispered.

I could feel her full lips on my hand. Damn my hand felt so good. I wished that she could take away all the pain I was feeling. My lungs and my stomach burned.

I kept trying to raise my eyelids. Slowly I began to open them enough to get a look at the world, though blurry and completely out of focus. It was the fifth inning when I first began to focus my efforts on opening my eyes. I could hear the post game show when I finally achieved success.

"Mike. Mike. Thank God. Keep your eyes open. Don't you dare think about trying to leave me again," Catherine said.

I tried to tell her that fate wasn't kind enough to let me leave, but my mouth was so dry. At least the damn tube was out of my mouth. It took a startling amount of effort to even part my lips.

"Thank you," I quietly whispered in a voice that didn't sound like my own.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm glad you decided to re-join the living," Catherine said with a smile as she gently ran her fingers along my cheek. He fingers then began to gently massage my scalp. God, my head felt like heaven despite the headache that was splitting though my skull.

"Catherine . . ."

"You don't have to talk," Catherine said. For the first time in my life, I did want to talk, but my body was betraying me.

"There are some things that you are going to have to learn. You've been out for 5 days. I took care of the Alavarez case. I know you were a rookie when all that went down. Frank's dead . . . it didn't pay for you to go down with him," Catherine whispered as she leaned in closely. Her breath was so warm against my skin.

My head was spinning. I didn't even know what Catherine could have done to make things better. I didn't know why she would have gone to the trouble.

"The gun . . . the gun was registered to Frank. The fingerprints were taken care of," Catherine whispered, "People know you are alive, but they have no idea where. This is going to be our secret."

Where the hell was I?

"We are in Reno. I had you airlifted out as soon as you were stable. I also might have told them your last name is Braun. It opens more than a few doors," Catherine whispered.

My God. I would have been speechless if I could have talked. I still couldn't imagine why she was doing this.

"Only I know. I'm working on a deal with the department of justice. Nobody else from the lab knows what's going on," Catherine whispered.

Why? I kept wondering why she would ever want to save someone like me. I was broken beyond repair.

"One more small lie, I told the staff that I was your wife," Catherine said. I must have smiled because she lightly smacked my arm.

"Catherine . . . why?"

"Call it kindred spirits," Catherine whispered as she gently kissed my cheek, "Without second, third, and fourth chances . . . I don't know where I would be."

"Thank you."

"Mike, are you okay?"

I must have grimaced. Croaking out 'thank you' burned like a fire ranging through my throat. Those last two words seemed to be too much for my badly injured body.

"Hurts," I croaked.

"I'll get your nurse," Catherine said as she pushed the call light, "What can I do?"

"Hold my hand again."

She smiled and grasped my hand. I tried to squeeze her hand, but I was too tired. I wanted peace and sleep. There would be time later to figure out what the hell Catherine had done and how she had managed to get it done. For the first time in my life, I looked forward to waking up.

* * *

Minutes after the nurse injected him with the dilaudid, he was asleep. There was a smile that gently played upon his lips. He looked peaceful. It was the first time I ever saw him look at peace.

I had to restrain myself from reaching out to touch his face and ran my finger though his hair. My fingers were entwined with his; he would occasionally squeeze my hand and I would gently squeeze it back. He looked so grateful for my presence. I was grateful that I could finally put some of my father's connections to a good, semi-lawful use.

Granted, Mike killed a man, but he was manipulated into it. Frank and Amy had done a number on him. Ecklie and Grissom might not agree with it, but to hell with them. They had asked me to get their asses out of binds more than once. Hell, Grissom came to me asking for help for Lady Heather and Sara . . . more than once. Ecklie . . . Ecklie had made some bad bets with even worse men. Who the hell would they be to judge me trying to help a man that killed out of shear, blind grief that was manufactured by a dirty cop and horrible man. Mike might have been the only innocent in that entire situation.

My phone vibrated against my thigh.

"Willows," I said in a hushed voice.

"How the hell did you make those fingerprints go away?" Grissom asked in a hushed voice.

"The same way I can make DUIs and attempted homicides go away," I whispered.

"Is Keppler doing well?" Grissom asked with a hushed sigh.

"Mike woke up today," I said with that same silly smile on my face.

"Are you sure this is the right thing to do, Catherine?"

"It is. He's a good man, Gil. He let a bad man talk him into making a mistake. He's spent his entire life trying to make that right," I replied.

"How do you know?"

"I read his file. It helped pass that first few days. His mistake isn't any worse than mine or yours," I replied.

"My mistakes don't include murder," Gil retorted in the same hushed tone.

"They do include letting an alcoholic process scenes and drive a fucking SUV down the strip. If she had killed someone, it would include murder, Gil."

"Jesus, Catherine. People are starting to wonder where you are. Nick . . . it's getting hard to lie to him every day about you needing personal time off. They aren't buying that you are at home trying to process what you saw happen to Keppler. They're smarter than that."

"As soon as Mike is well enough to be airlifted again . . . I'll be home then."

"What are you going to do? You can't bring him back to Vegas."

"I'm not bringing back Mike Keppler. I'm bringing back Matthew Braun . . . call it a second coming," I replied.

"Catherine . . . just be careful."

"I will. Gil, tell them that I miss them," I said softly.

"I will."

I hung up my phone. I was hoping that tomorrow Mike was well enough to start his life over as Matthew Braun.

* * *

"Wait . . . Catherine, explain this one more time," I said with complete disbelief.

"Your name is now Matthew James Braun. You are the son of Sam Braun . . . my father," Catherine replied calmly. She paused briefly to let me process exactly what she was saying.

"Matthew disappeared into the desert years ago. Matt got in with a bad crowd. Sam recovered his body years ago, but it was never reported to the police. You are coming back as Matt," I whispered.

"I thought you said you were working out a deal with the DOJ?"

"I am, but you need to lay low for awhile. Being Matt is going to buy you that time," Catherine replied.

"Let's not make any deals with the wrong people. I fucked up my life that way once. I'll be damned if I do it a second time," I said with a sigh. Catherine was a force to be reckoned with if there ever was one.

"Think of it as a second chance, Mike. This is your chance to live the life that you never believed you could have. No guilt, no regrets, no . . . whatever else it is you believe you've done wrong," Catherine said with a smile.

"Clean slate, huh?"

"It's in the past. When you are well enough, we'll go back to Trenton. It's time you started saying good-bye to Frank and Amy. You'll also be seeing a shrink. It's about damn time you start dealing with everything," Catherine replied with a smirk.

"So you plan to be along for this little adventure you've concocted?"

"Until you tell me to leave."

"If I could hug you . . ."

"I don't expect anything, Mike. I don't want anything in return. I do want to see Sam's money go to a good man. . . . a man that I know deserves the help," Catherine replied.

"Sam . . . he was a good man, wasn't he?"

"A rotten man, but he gave me a second chance. He gave my family a second chance. I know he loved me. He left everything to me . . . just as I was getting ready to file bankruptcy," Catherine said as he eyes glazed over, "He save my life. Saved my family."

"Now you are going to save me," I replied as I squeezed her hands.

"Something like that," Catherine replied.

"So are you going to be my private nurse?" I asked with a knowing smirk.

"Sponge baths aren't my thing," Catherine replied. I tried to act hurt, but that won me nothing more than a playful slap to the hand . . . the glorious hand that didn't feel pain when it was in Catherine's grasp.

"So how's this going to work with Lindsey?"

"She's away at school. Mom's in assisted living. It will be just us in the house."

"Are you going back to work?"

"You will be too. I'll bring home case files. There's a cold case room the size of your little cubicle here," Catherine replied, "You have a lot of questions."

"Never been one to like the unknown," I replied as I played with my IV tubing.

"It's time to let go, Mike. It's time for you to just be. Live in the moment," Catherine said with a wistful look on her face.

"Zen or some shit like that, right?"

"Non-believer."

She was right about that one. My system of faith hung by a thread if that. I hadn't been to a synagogue in years; I hadn't celebrated the high holidays since my mother died. My ex-wife was Catholic, so each year I put up a Christmas tree instead of a menorah. I gave up so much of my identity for 14 months of happiness. I'd be damned if I would ever do that again.

"When do I get this damn tube out of my nose?" I asked. I knew very well that it was a necessity. My abdominal wounds were still too fresh to risk any retching or vomiting.

"I thought you'd be more concerned about the one in your penis."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a pain in the ass?"

"Sure, but the real question is have they lived to tell the tale."

At that moment, I knew Catherine might be a woman that I could fall in love with.


	3. Chapter 3

"So this is it," Catherine said as she pushed open the door to her home. I tried to wheel myself in, but got stuck. The damn wheelchair was not making my life easier like the physical therapist said. I would have much rather been using my legs to get around, but "take it slow, Matt" . . . "it takes time, Matt" . . . and other such bullshit had been shoveled my way.

"Nice digs, Cath," I replied as I allowed her to finish what I could not complete.

"Mike, let's get you set up in the guestroom. If you want, we can work on some walking this afternoon," Catherine said as she wheeled me down the hall. Guestroom was an understatement for where she wheeled me to. The bed had a fluffy comforter, there were an abundant number of pillows, and most importantly, the room did not smell like a hospital.

"Cath, thank you," I said again as she began to turn back the sheets.

"Mike, let's get you to bed. We can change your dressings and get you set up in the bathroom later. I bought you a new shaving kit," Catherine said as she helped pry me out of the damned chair.

"You don't like my Grizzly Adams look?" I asked as I tried to will my feet to move. I had found in the previous days that doing left, right, left, right was much harder than I ever anticipated.

"I didn't figure you would like it," Catherine said as she eased me back into the bed, nearly falling on top of me.

"Catherine, could you stay with me for awhile?" I asked. I had grown dependent on her company over the last ten days of my hospital stay. Catherine was all I had left. I had no family, I lost of all Amy's family, and I had denied myself friends for most of my life. I was always too afraid that they would leave me . . . die, move away, or just decide I was as worthless as I felt.

"Sure, is everything okay?" Catherine said as she crawled up on the other side of the bed.

"Everything is okay. When do you go back to work?" I asked as Catherine instinctively ran her fingers through my hair. It was always pure heaven. I could do without pain medication if she would do that all day.

"Tomorrow night. Dr. Murphy is coming to see you tomorrow afternoon," Catherine said carefully. She knew I wasn't sold on the whole idea of seeing a shrink. It was bad enough that I had seen a surgeon, a surgical resident, a medical student, a legion of nurses, and pulmonologist, a physical therapist, and occupational therapist, a pain specialist, and I forget what else over the last 10 days. They all called me Matthew or addressed me as Mr. Braun. Sam's clout must have carried over to Reno.

"Goody," I grumbled under my breath.

"Mike, you need to talk about all the baggage that you have been carting around," Catherine admonished gently.

"Why can't you just listen to me bitch about how my mother used to spank me and how Frank used to rape Amy after her mother died? Or why I wondered why the fuck she would cry after I made love to her?" I asked. I hadn't intended for that much to come out of my mouth. By my standards, I had become a fucking chatterbox since I was shot. The morphine was just as good as sodium thiopental in my book. My lips wouldn't shut for 45 minutes after I ingested that shit.

"Mike, it's the same way I don't talk about how Eddie used to pin me to the ground and rape me. You don't need to hear how fucked up I actually am," Catherine replied as she continued to massage my scalp . . . never missing a beat after my confession.

I had yet to break down in front of Catherine. I allowed myself to cry once when I knew Catherine was going back to Vegas for the day. I cried for Frank, for Amy, and finally for myself. Before this, I never allowed myself to mourn, to be anger, or to feel betrayed. This time, I couldn't hold it in. My body began to shake as I tried to fight off the sobs that were rapidly threatening to come to the surface. I should have known that I was fighting a losing battle. The sobs boiled over and I began to choke on the hot tears running down my face. I was positive that Catherine didn't have any idea what she was getting herself into.

She pulled me into her arms. I rested my head against her chest. She said something softly. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but the tone of her voice sounded nice. It didn't sound like she thought that I was losing my mind or that she felt sorry for me. Catherine sounded like she could relate to all my hurt. I remembered her saying something about kindred spirits. My ex-wife never could provide even an iota of comfort. She wanted me to be strong and emotionally suppressed. Catherine didn't seem to want that. She seemed to want me to feel. I was grateful for that; my entire life everyone around me seemed happier when I suppressed my emotions.

"Honey, it's okay. I want you to take all the time you need to heal and grieve. I'll be right next to you the entire time," Catherine whispered as she pressed a kiss onto the crown of my head.

"Cath, thank you. You barely know me and you are listening to all the shit I've carried around," I replied as I let her draw me closer.

"You don't have to thank me every ten minutes. Just shut up and let me hold you," Catherine whispered as she placed another kiss on the crown of my head.

"When do I get to repay you?"

"Once you are back on your feet . . . I have lots of stuff around this house that needs to be fixed and replaced," Catherine joked.

I fell asleep in her arms that afternoon. I couldn't remember when she managed to slip out of bed. That afternoon was the first afternoon where I didn't have dreams about Frank and the new hole in my body. I relished the dreamless sleep, the fluffy pillows, and crisp linens. There was nothing better than a woman's bed.

I slept into the early evening. The pain in my abdomen was what woke me up. I had woken up groaning and moaning before. Today it was worse. Catherine was promptly at my side with a handful of pills. I knew them all intimately. Morphine IR, morphine SR, laxative, stool softener, antibiotic, and acid blocker. I could take the whole damn lot at one time . . . dry.

"Impressive, Mike. You want to come out the table for supper or have supper in bed?"

"Table. Could you help me to the bathroom so I can wash up?" I asked as I reached for Catherine's hand.

"Sure, do you want the chair or the walker?"

"Wheel or electric?"

"Jesus, Mike," Catherine chuckled as she pulled the walker in front of me. I might have even laughed too.

It took fifteen painful steps to get into the bathroom. I stared at the figure in the mirror. The beard . . . the dark circle under my eyes . . . I went so far as to look at the bandages. All I could wonder was who was this miserable looking man. I washed my hands and even managed to splash water on my face.

"You okay in there?" Catherine said as she lightly knocked on the door.

"Yeah, just taking it all in," I replied.

"Need some help?"

"Just slowly, but surely making my way to the door," I replied.

"We'll shave that thing this evening," Catherine said as she opened the door.

"We?"

"I miss the clean shaven Mike. The mountain man isn't as attractive," Catherine said with a smile.

"I'm hurt. I've never been shaved before," I quipped. I hoped that her dining room was close by. My legs were seriously pissed off that they were expected to do so much work.

"I promise I'll be gentle," Catherine replied as she wrapped an arm around my waist. God damn was she was a strong woman.

"Who says I like it gentle?"

"Good to know."

* * *

Mike looked at the bland food sitting in front of him with a little bit of disgust and a little bit of thankfulness that it was not the gray-color oatmeal the hospital forced on him daily. "Good for your bowels" is what one of the nurses would always say. There were several times his mood was foul enough that I thought the nurse would be wearing that oatmeal.

"Just for a few more days. The doctor said you need to let your bowels rest as much as possible," I said. Mike swirled his soup with his spoon.

"I haven't had a meal with someone in about nine months," Mike confessed. After his unexpected meltdown this afternoon, I was anticipating a quiet evening, but Mike seemed to be full of surprises tonight.

"Nine months?"

"I never let people in, Catherine. When I do, I'm normally sorely disappointed," Mike replied as he sipped his soup.

"What about me?" I replied. I had purposefully eaten an hour ago. I didn't think it was fair to eat 'people food' in front of him. In the hospital, he told me he would do just about anything for a taste of my tuna-fish sandwich. I didn't think it would be fair to eat steak in front of him; that might push him a little too far today.

"You. You're something else, Catherine," Mike replied with this silly looking grin. It was the same grin he gave me about I confessed that I told people we were husband and wife.

"I hope that's a compliment," I replied as I swirled my coffee.

"It is. The soup . . . it's really good," Mike replied.

"Bullshit. It's out of a box. I'm going to the grocery store tomorrow, so I can at least make you French onion soup or something that doesn't taste like the cardboard it was packaged in," I replied with a laugh, which in turn made him laugh.

"Are you always this honest?"

"Most of the time. Do you always blatantly lie about the quality of a woman's cooking?"

"May I plead the fifth?"

"Are you done playing with your food?"

"You are really itching to get rid of my beard, aren't you?" Mike joked.

Christ, it took nearly dying to get this man to open up. Some men it takes three beers, some men need a couple shots of whiskey. I never underestimated the power of liquid courage. But Mike Keppler, needed a bullet to pierce his lung and liver.

"Come on," I said as I helped him into the wheelchair. I knew that the prospective walking with the walker was a little too much for him right now. Besides, I wasn't going to be in a hurry to destroy the flirtatious atmosphere by making him set out on a painful march to the living room.

"Cath, have you ever done this before?" Mike asked as I carefully deposited him in to a reclining chair in the living room.

"Why? Where's the trust, Mike," I joked as I gathered up my supplies. I fully intended to make this one of the most relaxing experiences Mike ever had. The poor man seemed to go to mush every time I touched his scalp. I was pretty sure that this might reduce him to jelly. Call it watching too much television . . . call it me getting off on pleasuring a man . . . call it whatever you will.

"What the hell is all of that?" Mike asked as I came back with an armful of supplies.

"Just shut up and enjoy," I replied with a smile as I fastened the towel around Mike's neck.

"You have a foul mouth, Catherine," Mike said with a smirk.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"You'll just have to wait and see."

With that I began working the warmed shaving foam onto his face. I stopped to rinse my hands. I let me fingers glide through his hair. Mike let a very satisfied sigh escape. His eyes were closed, and for once, I was nearly certain he wasn't thinking at all. I slowly and carefully shaved off every last bristle of his unkempt beard. I toweled off his face; very satisfied with my work. I gently massaged after-shave lotion into his skin. The tension lines on his face all but disappeared. I slowly massaged his checks, forehead, jaw line, and neck. Mike contentedly groaned with approval. I smiled with approval.

For the first time in my life, I wanted nothing more than to make someone else happy. It wasn't at all about me. It wasn't about sex. Watching Mike fall into a state of bliss was better than any sex I had in a long time.

* * *

Jesus, her hands are fucking amazing. That's the only thought that kept replaying through my head. There was one other one, but it was more of a curiosity. I kept wondering what else these fabulous hands were good at, which made me wonder if I would ever get to find that out.

"How are you feeling, Mike?"

"I once heard this expression . . . I thought it was a load of shit at the time, but does _blissed out_ mean anything to you," I replied.

"No, but that was about the last thing that I expected you to say," Catherine replied as she continued to knead my shoulders. She was so close to me that I could smell her perfume . . . lilacs and vanilla. I had to keep reminding myself, especially certain parts of myself, to behave themself. The damn doctor had innocently commented that my "nether-region", I think that's what he called it, might want to go on hiatus for awhile so my sutures can heal. I was thankful Catherine was out of the room signing my discharge paperwork. The doctor should have been thankful I didn't punch him in his "nether-region."

"You smell so good," I said. I said this without realizing it; my current state of bliss seemed to have somehow made the filter in my brain non-functional.

"Thank you. Do you want to go to bed, so I can finish massaging your back before I change your dressings?"

I sure did want to go to bed, but dressing changes and massages weren't exactly what I was hoping for. All I could imagine was exploring every inch of Catherine Willows. It almost made me laugh when I remembered that I was supposed to be playing the part of her dead half-brother.

"Mike?"

"Bed sounds good. The massage sounds even better," I replied as I opened my eyes and saw Catherine leaning over me. I tried to maintain eye contact, but that damn blouse she was wearing gave me the perfect angle of her seemingly perfect breasts.

"Let's get you up and to bed," Catherine replied . . . never missing a beat if she had noticed my gawking.

Her hands were magic. At this point, I was willing to follow those hands anywhere . . . to the ends of the Earth if I needed to.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good to see you, Cath," Nick said as he enveloped me in a big hug that had I not known Nick for years, would have felt oppressive.

"It's nice to be back," I blatantly lied. Truth was I would have much rather been at home with Mike. I had enjoyed spending time with him. He had sat at the counter this morning watching me cook. Mike occasionally offered to help, but I told him there would be time to help later. He would wring his hands occasionally; this poor man needed some kind of hobby, or so I thought. I should have realized that he was nervous about Dr. Murphy's impending a

rrival.

I had known Dr. Shannon Murphy for years. She had been a savior in my book more than once. I saw her weekly to discuss Lindsey, mom, Sam, Eddie, and work. My thoughts were so black and heavy that I never felt I could share them with the people closest to me.

When Dr. Murphy got here, her and Mike disappeared into my office to talk. I tried to busy my hands for the hour that was allotted for Mike. I cleaned the kitchen, I straightened up the living room, and I straightened up Mike's bedroom. I wasn't looking forward to having to leave Mike tonight. He still relied on me for so much. When I voiced this concern, he waved me off and said he could manage for 10 hours.

"It's nice to be back, Nick," I said as I walked into the locker room. I stopped in front of Mike's locker. His name plate was still in place. I let my fingers gently run over it. It was strange how a man who had only been in my life for six weeks could make such an impact.

"I thought you might want to clean it out," Ecklie said as he leaned up against the doorway, "Rumor has it that Keppler died of complications during surgery. I haven't been able to track down any family members. The man didn't fill out an emergency contact sheet. It's you or the janitor."

"Get me the combination. I'll do it after my shift," I said trying to suppress the tears that were threatening to escape my eyes. I come within seconds of losing Mike. It was really only dumb luck and the hands of a talented surgeon that kept him alive.

"You might want to call his landlord too," Ecklie said as he disappeared.

"Can I see you in my office?" Grissom asked. I got up and followed him. Little did Ecklie know, I had already cleaned out Mike's apartment . . . scotch and all. There wasn't much to package up; really just enough to fill two boxes and three suitcases. There weren't pictures, mementos, or little reminders of his life. Most of his belongs were stark black and white, much like his wardrobe. It was damn depressing.

"Catherine, how's Mike?" Grissom asked in his typical disinterested tone.

"Rumor has it he died in surgery," I parroted back.

"Catherine," Grissom replied.

"He's doing fine. Good as can be expected," I replied in a hushed voice. I really wanted to tell him that Mike was doing really well. He would smile and laugh occasionally. He felt damn good in my arms.

"How's the deal coming?" Grissom asked as he began to sort through his mail.

"He's a good man, Grissom," I replied.

"Catherine, be careful. Don't turn into the thug that your father was," Grissom warned. I stood up and left his office. Some days, I thought I could be much happier without this crime lab in my life. I was already running a lot of Sam's affairs. I was overseeing the building of a new casino where the Rampart used to stand. I had control of Sam's estate. In all reality, I didn't need to work another day of my life.

After 32 minutes at work, I was more than ready to go home.

* * *

I decided that I was going to keep nightshift hours, so I could maximize my time with Catherine. The woman had good taste in literature. Her living room had a bookcase full of the classics. They were books that had been my friends for most of my youth. They didn't tease me about being the only Jew in a neighborhood of Irish descendents. They didn't make fun of me for being the boy whose girlfriend hacked open her wrists. I picked up an old copy of Macbeth. The leather binding was well-worn. It was obviously a well-loved copy. It made me smile.

I could always relate to Macbeth. I was always trying to wash the blood off my hands for something . . . some worse than others. The night I killed that boy, I stood in the shower for an hour trying to get the blood off of me. The water ran cold by the time I was done. In my heart of hearts, I knew that he didn't kill Amy. In a way, Frank and I both killed Amy. Frank raped her. I never asked why she cried all the time, or why she laid still with her eyes tightly shut when I tried to make love to her. Frank pushed her up to the edge of the cliff . . . I let her fall over.

Catherine left out my pill box on the kitchen counter. This morning she very diligently put my pills into the little boxes . . . morning, afternoon, and night. My medication schedule looked a lot like a fucking part-time job. She did it so lovingly; Catherine did everything so lovingly. My own mother never gave me this much attention when I was sick. I was diagnosed with mono in eighth grade; my mother's care consisted of looking in at me in the morning before work and looking in at me before she went out on a date in the evening. My wife was no better after I had my appendix removed early on in our marriage. One would have thought that I purposely ruined her Sunday by deciding to develop appendicitis. Catherine . . . she was so different.

I took my pills at three in the morning. I heated up some of the French onion soup she made for me that morning. I had my supper in silence wishing that Catherine was there to banter with. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her hands on my face, on my back, and on my neck. I could smell her. All that made me smile. It had been a long time since I smiled about anyone. It was an even longer time since someone did something to make me smile.

I slowly made my way back to the living room and rested in the recliner with the well-worn copy of Macbeth. I only had to wait four more hours until Catherine would come home.

* * *

I didn't expect to find Mike sleeping in the recliner with my old copy of Macbeth in his hands, but I had learned to expect the unexpected from him. He looked so peaceful. A slight smile played across his lips. I wanted to touch him, but I also did not want to wake him up.

"Are you staring at me?" Mike asked in a slightly hoarse voice.

"Keeping banker's hours?" I retorted.

"Thought that you might like to see my smiling face this morning. Did Ecklie make you clean out my locker?" Mike asked when he saw the box in my arms.

"How do you know I didn't quit my job?"

"You don't quit, Catherine. Your work is what nourishes your soul. I knew that from the second I saw you," Mike replied as he sat up. He looked like he was moving much easier today, but he always looked well up until I took him to see his physical therapist.

"Have you ever thought of pursuing profiling? Not just as your hobby, but as a career?" I asked as I set the box on the table next to him.

"I'm not sure that law enforcement is going welcome me back with open arms," Mike replied as he picked up his black leather date book. He opened it and stared at a piece of paper.

"Is that her?" I asked as I sat on the arm of the recliner.

"It's her. Damn . . . she was so beautiful. Really innocent, you know?"

"She is. Are you going to be okay?" I asked cautiously as I ran my fingers through his hair. I don't know what it was about Mike's hair, but my hands could not resist touching it.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Let's make breakfast. I need something to do," Mike said as he replaced Amy's picture into the date book and snapped it shut.

"Do you mind if I shower and change first?"

"Sure, the scent of garbage and decomp is a little less alluring than the perfume you normally wear," Mike said straight faced.

"So I'm alluring?" I said as I peeled off my suit jacket and threw it into a wicker basket next to the door. The basket was getting full. I knew I should probably drop off dry cleaning while Mike was doing his therapy, but I wasn't sure if I could leave him.

"Not when you smell like that," Mike replied, "Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful?"

I almost chuckled, but Mike seemingly had put some thought into what he said. He even looked like he might have actually meant it. I had let it slip one night that I, in a past life, had been a stripper. Mike smiled and said something about a lap dance possibly aiding in his recovery. He made it very clear that he didn't care about my past. That very well could have been what made him so damn irresistible.

"Once or twice," I replied as I walked closer to him. He was standing up using his walker. I hadn't seen him stand up by himself yet; he normally looked like he was in pure agony when he moved. The doctor told me to expect Mike to move very gingerly over the next few weeks. Mike had the perfect excuse . . . and incision that extended from his sternum to his pubic bone. The bullet apparently nicked his intestines, traveled up into his lung, hit a rib and redirected itself into Mike's liver. Mike referred to the bullet, which he kept, as a 'crafty little fucker.'

"Catherine, you are so beautiful," Mike said as he ran his hand along my jawbone, "You'll let me know when I've overstepped my bounds, right?"

"I'll let you know," I whispered.

His lips slowly pressed against mine. The tentativeness quickly gave way to something much more hungry and fierce. Mike's hands gently traced my profile. I rested my right hand on his chest; I could feel his heart pounding. It felt so good to know that he was alive. He was alive and was here with me.

"Cath, you don't need to stop to check my pulse. I'm okay. Right now, I feel alive. I haven't felt alive in years," Mike whispered in my ear.

I could feel the tears burning behind my eyes. He came so close to dying. He came so close that I could just about taste it. Mike sensed my immediate change in mood. He pulled me as close to my chest as the walker would allow. I could feel my tears soaking his t-shirt.

"Mike, you could have died," I whispered in a jagged voice.

"Part of me did, but you saved me, Catherine. You gave me my life back. I'll always be eternally grateful for that," Mike whispered as he held me closer.


	5. Chapter 5

"Are you sure I can't help you?" I asked as I watched Mike dice vegetables and beat eggs.

"Positive. Just sit still," Mike replied with a smile. It wasn't his typical half-smiles or grins that looked more like a painful grimace. This smile was different. After my little breakdown, I hadn't expected him to be in such a cheery mood.

"If you're sore . . ."

"Not sore. Feeling good right now," Mike replied with that same damn smile.

"So your thing with eggs . . .," I inquired as I wrapped my robe around me a little tighter.

"Texture thing. I had my jaw wired shut when I was fifteen. Boxing accident. Well, it really wasn't an accident. I ran my smart ass mouth off to the wrong guy," Mike replied.

"Whoever did your work did a good job," I replied.

"Better have. I had to work extra hours after school to help meet the premiums."

"I wish I would have known you then," I replied absentmindedly.

"I wouldn't wish for that. I'm a little more well-adjusted now," Mike replied straight-faced causing me to start to laugh. The thought of this being the well-adjusted Mike was ironic at best.

"I'm just hurt, Catherine. I expected better from you being my benefactor and all," Mike said again with that carefree smile as he nearly expertly flipped the omelet in the pan. He let it brown for what I assumed was a predetermined time in his head before sliding it on the plate in front of me.

"Mike, this is incredible," I said as I tasted the omelet. The man could cook. There were no buts about it.

"It's an omelet. I could teach a monkey to make them," Mike replied as he began to clean up the counter.

"Not making one for yourself?" I asked.

"Nope. My stomach isn't ready for solids. It got pissed off last night when I tried some of that soy milk you've been touting," Mike replied.

"God, I'm sorry," I replied.

"Not that bad, just one hell of a case of heartburn," Mike replied as he clung to the counter to move over next to me. On the way, he stopped and ran his fingers through my hair. Letting them wander down to my shoulders.

"So what are you going to do with yourself until therapy?" I asked knowing full well that I planned on sleeping. The thought of having him in bed next to me would be icing on the cake, but I wasn't going to push him into anything he wasn't ready for. I kept telling myself that; this was a chance for him to get his life in order. He wasn't here to be my personal sex slave.

"Sleep. Is there anyway I can talk you into helping me change my dressings?" Mike asked again with that same easy smile.

"Sure. I could be conned into that," I replied. His fingers gently traced down my arms. His dressings weren't going to get changed if he kept that up.

"Good because I'm not looking forward to trying to pull the tape off," Mike replied. He was still standing behind me gently massaging my shoulders, working his way up to my neck.

"Mike," I said quietly.

"Catherine, do you want me to stop?"

* * *

She was exquisite. Catherine laid me down on her bed and gently straddled my hips. She ran her fingers along my dressing. I had to will every inch of my body to behave, but I had the feeling that Catherine was okay with some misbehaving.

Catherine leaned over me and gently kissed me. It was as if she was asking permission. I kissed her back . . . slowly exploring her mouth. I ran my hands through her hair and down her back. She slowly untied the robe she was wearing and let it fall to the floor.

Her skin was a creamy white that I had never seen before. I tried to take it all in. She was wearing a tank top and tiny little shorts. Catherine slowly pulled off her tank top revealing two beautiful breasts. She moaned softly as I ran my hands over them.

So much for sleeping.

* * *

The way he looked at me was so different than what I was used to. His eyes seemed to burn right into my soul. Mike would make brief eye contact to make sure that I was still enjoying him . . . make sure that I was still there with him. Maybe that's something he tried to do with Amy years ago; make sure that she was still with him.

Despite having minimal use of his abdominal muscles, Mike did anything possible to please me. I hadn't had a lover ever be interested in pleasing me . . . over and over again. Every time I tried to reciprocate, Mike pushed my hands away. He would occasionally murmur something about me being beautiful.

His hands are much more graceful than I had originally anticipated. Mike knew how to touch a woman. He knew where to linger and where to skim over.

"Mike," I said a little too longly for my taste. It sounded so needy, but I wanted to feel more of him. To for a few moments become one with him

"Not yet, sutures are still healing. Lay down, Catherine," Mike quietly commanded as he went back to softly torturing me. I was impressed with his self-control. I was ready to say fuck the sutures . . .we'll worry about that later.

After twenty minutes of pure torture, I achieved my release. I softly whispered his name as he held me close to him. He kissed my neck and murmured something about me being so beautiful, so soft . . . someone that he could fall in love with. I had imagined the words before, but to hear them out loud was so much sweeter.

After my haze had slightly subsided, I pushed Mike on his back. He had this goofy grin on his face. It was my turn to get better acquainted with Mike Keppler.

* * *

She's good. Catherine's the type of woman that you can imagine being with her, but once you have, you realized that your fantasies fell so short of reality. Her lips are warm and slightly swollen from my attack on them moments earlier.

"Look at me, Mike," Catherine demanded.

I couldn't stop looking if she threatened me. Everything about her was beautiful. I wanted to capture everything about these moments just in case she changed her mind tomorrow. Her creamy skin, that devilish grin, her curves . . . everything. I tried to burn all those images into my brain.

During my penance or perceived penance, I had refrained from nearly all sexual contact. Even self-gratification had all but dissolved. I had lived a very solitary, very unfulfilling life.

After Catherine, I don't think I could have ever gone back to black and white.


	6. Chapter 6

"New boyfriend?" Warrick asked with a knowing smirk. He had caught me softly humming while I was filling out my paperwork.

"Something like that," I replied with a smile.

"Cath, your face reads like a book. Who is he?"

"A nice guy," I replied again with that same smile.

"Well, whoever he is . . . he's making you happy. You look good, Cath. After Keppler, I was worried about you," Warrick said as he gently placed his hand on my arm. That name still had enormous power over me. It could change my entire mood. I could go from laughing to crying; despite the fact, I knew he was in my house puttering around while I pretended to enjoy being at work.

"Cath, are you . . . um, talking to anyone about what you saw?"

"Yeah, Warrick, I am. It's just . . . hard. He was a good CSI," I replied. In a lot of ways, Mike Keppler was gone. He wasn't a CSI anymore, which had been a major portion of the deal with the DOJ. To me, it seemed like he lost part of his identity. Mike just laughed and said he always wanted to go back to school to study psychology. It didn't seem to faze him as much as it did me.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up," Warrick replied as he continued to do his own paperwork.

"No, it's okay," I replied.

"Can I take you out to dinner some time? You know, like the old days . . . me, you, Sara, and Grissom."

"What about Greg?"

"Greg, too. Like old times, when shit didn't get so damn complicated."

"I'd like that," I replied. In all reality, it made my skin crawl. My interactions with Grissom were nothing less than painful. He had made it very, very clear he thought that Mike had gotten off easy. Grissom had also made it very clear that he thought I was no better than my father. He also happened to stop over at my house; Grissom very obviously interrupted something he wasn't supposed to see.

Grissom didn't remotely approve of our situation. Had Mike not stepped in when he did, I would have hauled off and slapped Grissom for insinuating that all my actions had been guided by pure lust. That was far from the truth. I had always been attracted to Mike, but I wasn't helping him for solely that reason. Grissom wouldn't listen when I tried to explain why. Grissom had stopped listening long before I opened my mouth. Mike ever so kindly pointed out the Grissom had already made up his mind. He asked Grissom to leave. At the time, I thought Mike meant leave the house, but in reflection, I think he asked Grissom to walk away from whatever relationship he had with me. Mike apologized for overstepping his boundaries, but made it clear that he was worried about how miserable Grissom seemed to be making me.

"Cath, I need you to stay and cover part of CSI Drangle's shift," Grissom said as he walked by the layout room where Warrick and I were stationed.

"It seems like we are always picking up day shift's slack," Warrick replied. I bit my tongue. Grissom knew very well that I needed to be at home to help Mike and to take him to therapy. He also knew that this was the third time this week he asked me for extra hours.

"I can't keep pulling these extra shifts," I replied. Warrick nodded, but didn't open his mouth to volunteer to pick up the extra hours.

"I hear Nick's been looking for some extra time," Warrick offered, "Everything okay with you and Griss?"

"Grissom is just caught up in Sara right now. He lets relationships absorb him . . . doesn't leave much room for the rest of the people in his life," I replied, "I'm going to go find Nick."

I snuck into my office and shut the door. I needed a minute before I tried to track down Nick. I couldn't keep doing this. I had been looking at the job postings; I had even approached Ecklie about taking a position on days. He hadn't been forthcoming as to if there was a position to be had. I assumed that I would probably be taking Mike's place. Not that I thought I could ever take Mike's place.

"Nick, I need a favor," I said once Nick answered his cell phone.

* * *

She called to say that she was going to be late again. It had become a trend lately. Grissom would ask her to cover part of a day shift or he would guilt her into working a double. By the time Catherine got home, she looked more like the living dead than anything else. Shockingly, she looked like she was in worse condition than I was.

I would always have breakfast ready. I would have her bed turned down. I had gone so far as to have laundry done and folded, but Catherine insisted that I be resting. She should have known that I would do anything to spend a few waking moments with her.

Over the last two weeks, we hadn't found overselves in the same compromising position that Grissom found us in. Catherine seemed nothing less than mortified that Grissom caught us in the backyard with her using those glorious hands to make time and space seemingly stop. Being with her seemed to quiet the world; it was as if time would pause for a few moments to let me hold her closer and let me whisper in her ear. It was truly a gift. Grissom's lame ass 'I thought I heard someone back here" ruined my quiet.

"Good morning," Catherine said as she marched through the door and dropped her purse on the ground not caring where it fell.

"Afternoon, Catherine . . . it's afternoon," I whispered as I kissed her cheek and slowly unbuttoned the suit jacket she was wearing . . . ridding her of the garment that smelled like gun shot residue. I carefully folded it and placed it in the wicker basket.

"It smells good, Mike," Catherine said with a weak smile.

"Well, brunch is ready," I replied as I restrained myself from picking her up and carrying her to bed.

"Brunch, huh?" Catherine said with an amused look on her face.

"I've wanted to make you supper one of these days, but Grissom is turning out to be the wingman from hell," I replied. Catherine laughed and settled into her chair.

"Mike, you are amazing. You look good today," she replied.

"I feel good. I had my appointment with the surgeon this morning," I said.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Catherine swore.

"Just got the same advice and warnings as the last four appointments," I replied. That wasn't the whole truth, but I wasn't about to worry her with minor complications. I wasn't about to let her figure out that the redness around the incision was a wound infection. The surgeon said that it was pretty common; said that I might have benefited from using antibiotic salve over the suture line. I pointed out that his asshole colleague said that any ointment or salve would weaken the sutures and cause my guts to come pouring out of my body. My goal was to never see my intestines up close and personal. However, the solution was simple . . . fourteen days of another pill added into my regimen. Thank God, it was a small pill.

"Good, I'm sorry," Catherine replied.

"Don't be sorry. I'm sure you aren't the one clamoring to work extra hours."

"That would be an understatement if I ever heard one."

"As soon as you are done, let's get you in the shower and to bed," I said.

"So does that mean you are helping me?" Catherine asked with a raised eyebrow.

"If you'll let me," I replied.

* * *

I could have fallen asleep upright; Mike gently massaged the soap into my scalp and gently washed my body. He carefully toweled me down and carried me to my bed where he satisfy my tired body once and a second time for good measure. For a man who admittedly had little sexual experience, he knew what he was doing . . . he had intuition that most men never develop.

"Mike, I wish you would be mad at me for not being around much," I whispered as I was falling asleep.

"I can't be mad at you, Catherine," Mike said as he held my body close to his.

"Why? Everyone else seems to be particularly apt at it."

"I love you." He said quietly.

"Mike . . ."

"No, you don't have to say anything, Catherine. It's not because you saved my ass . . . it's not because you have sacrificed your relationship with Grissom . . . it's not any of that. It's been a long time since I have even thought of loving someone as an option. You make me feel good about who I am. I've never felt like that before," Mike said as he ran his fingers through my hair.

"Mike, it's because I love you too. No one has every treated me like a lady before . . . I usually don't . . . I have shitty taste in men," I replied.

"I'm glad," Mike replied with a chuckle, "They gave me time to find you."

* * *

I woke up with Catherine in my arms. I also woke up with chills and chills so bad that they transcended into rigors. I felt cold, but a thick layer of sweat coated my skin. Everything ached and I felt dizzy. It was the type of dizzy where I knew if I moved, I would end up on the floor in a rather unceremonious manner.

Despite knowing that, I moved to get out of bed. Sure as shit, I stumbled into the wall. I clung to the wall and tried to catch my breath.

"Mike, what the hell?" Catherine said as she sprung out of bed and was at my side, "Jesus, you're burning up."

Catherine guided and half-pulled my body back to the bed. She tore off the dressing. I had changed them this morning, but now they were coated with a thick, brown drainage. The red area had substantially spread. Fourteen days of antibiotics will make it better, my ass.

Before I knew what was happening, I was back in Catherine's bed and she was using some very pointed language on the telephone. She looked more than flustered as she disappeared into the bathroom. Catherine came back dressed and with her hair pulled back. She silently redressed my wounds.

"Come on, tough guy. The doctor is going to meet us in the ER."

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

"Why didn't you tell me about the wound infection?" Catherine asked. I could see the tears in her eyes. I would rather have died than make her cry again.

"I didn't want you to worry. Grissom has personally seen to it that your life is complicated enough," I rambled.

"Mike, I want us to be in this together. No more secrets," Catherine said as she rested a damp washcloth against my forehead.

"No more," I replied.

For being a small woman, Catherine takes no prisoners. She all but hauled me out of the house and into her SUV. At the ER, she promptly situated me in a wheelchair. My disguise as Matt Braun was complete with the addition of sunglasses and a baseball hat. It was probably one of Eddie's . . . it was old and it stunk.

"Mr. Braun . . . Mrs. Braun," The doctor said as he greeted us at the front desk. I grumbled something; Catherine glared at him.

"Please come back," he said as he took control of the wheelchair away from Catherine. I almost laughed when I saw that daggers that she was shooting him. It was as if we were being invited to a fancy dinner, rather than into a dank, little holding area.

"Now, when did Mr. Braun take a turn for the worse?"

I could have smacked the man for using those words. They immediately made Catherine cry, as if she was solely responsible for my fever and infection.

"I felt like shit this afternoon," I replied.

"Oh, did you take your antibiotic?"

"I have nothing better to do with my time than take pills."

"Maybe we should try something stronger."

"Really," I snapped. Catherine looked at me with her head cocked slightly to the right and began to laugh. She had seen me in my cynical moods, my downright angry moods, but never in my sarcastic, no holds barred mood.

"Is that how you got your jaw broken?" Catherine asked as she ran a hand along my arm, "Doctor, he'll take the stronger antibiotic."

"Let's just double cover the bacteria. I'd hate to have you come back anytime soon," the doctor said as he left our cubicle.

"You scared him away," Catherine said.

"As long as I don't scare you away," I replied.

"I'm a tough girl. I need to call Grissom," Catherine replied.

"What you aren't going to hang around while I sit around in a gown with my ass hanging out?" I asked.

"I'll be back for the show. I just want to call-in before shift starts," Catherine said as she kissed my forehead.

"You don't . . ."

"I'm going to, and you aren't going to argue," Catherine replied as she disappeared out of my holding pen . . . leaving me nothing better to do than change into the god-forsaken gown.


	7. Chapter 7

"Mom, I'm home," Lindsey yelled as I heard what I imagined was every piece of her luggage being dropped on the floor, "Mom."

I pulled myself out of bed and threw on a pair of yoga pants and the nearest shirt I could find, which just happened to be Mike's sweatshirt. It smelt like him . . . the faint scent of his body wash and something else that I just couldn't put my finger on. I trudged out to the living room. It had been a week since Mike's wound infection; things had once again begun to quiet into a predictable rhythm.

"Lindsey, you have to be quiet," I whispered as I hugged my daughter . . . my dear, sweet, troubled daughter.

"What's up, mom?" Lindsey asked.

"Mike . . . my friend . . . he's sleeping right now," I replied. I felt my cheeks blush a bright cherry red.

"Friend or boyfriend?" Lindsey asked. Damn the mind of a sixteen year old. She was young enough to speak her mind and old enough to know what was really going on.

"Boyfriend. How were your finals?" I asked as I walked into the kitchen to make coffee, tea or whatever caffeine I could get my hands on first.

"My science teacher . . . ugh . . . he's convinced that I'm stupid," Lindsey began. I was surprised that she dropped her interrogation so quickly, but Lindsey did tend towards the self-centered. The probably wasn't fair since every teenager I had ever met seemed to gravitate towards the self-centered. She launched into a long story about dissecting frogs and sheep eyes . . . and how gross and morally offensive it was. Only my daughter . . . she never was one for conformity.

"Cath, did you want me to make supper before you go to work?" Mike asked as he walked into the kitchen. I was thanking God that he was fully dressed. We had gotten accustomed to spending most of our time in a minimal amount of clothing . . . especially since the surgeon gave "procreation" the green light.

"This must be Lindsey. Your mom talks about you a lot," Mike said as he carefully sized up Lindsey.

"This must be Mike . . . my mom never told me about you," Lindsey said as she did the same.

"Well, do you like surprises?" Mike asked.

"Possibly," Lindsey replied.

"Well, surprise," Mike quipped. Lindsey immediately looked disinterested and launched back into her story about her hatred of school. Mike feigned interest for about a half hour before he started making supper. I on the other hand talked to Lindsey about everything from school to friends. Despite talking to Lindsey nearly every day, I could still talk to her for hours on end.

"So, Mike, how did you meet my mom?" Lindsey asked.

"I got shot in the gut. She saved my life," Mike replied.

"He really was the one that saved my life," I said softly.

"Cool. So how long have you guys been shacking up?" Lindsey replied. She didn't seem at all phased that Mike nearly died, but he didn't seem to care to share those details. She was curiously eyeing exactly what he was doing.

"Two months," Mike replied. I wanted to smack Mike for not adding in the required public service announcement saying that 'shacking up' isn't a good idea . . . no sex before marriage . . . don't smoke pot, or whatever.

"So . . . are you a CSI too?"

"Nope. I haven't been back to work since I was shot. I'm going back to college to study psychology," Mike replied.

"Cool. Are you going to be a therapist or something?" Lindsey asked momentarily interested in Mike.

"Or something. I think I want to work with serial killers or teenagers, which ever seem less lethal," Mike replied with a slight smile.

"Probably the serial killers. What are you making?" Lindsey said without missing a beat. I couldn't take my eyes off of those two. Lindsey walked around the island and all but followed Mike around while he was cooking. He smiled and handed her a knife. He briefly demonstrated how to dice onions. He then told her to have at it.

Lindsey smiled and laughed with Mike. I sat back watching them easily interact. Mike wasn't someone that I pictured liking or even tolerating kids, let alone teenagers, but again with the unexpected. They easily bantered as Mike showed Lindsey how to make chicken in a wine sauce. She badgered him a little bit about dating her mom; he badgered her about being so damn noisy.

"So . . . about this drivers ed thing?" Lindsey tentatively inquired as she began to set the table.

"It starts tomorrow," I replied as a cold chill ran through my body. My daughter on the road controlling a huge peace of metal did nothing less than terrify me.

"When are you going to have time to do the on the road practice with me? I'm only home for a month," Lindsey asked pointedly. She did have a point.

"Cath, I can do it. It will give me something to do while you're at work. Besides, Lindsey will need to know how to change a tire . . . her oil," Mike offered.

"Are you sure that you want to be trapped in a car with my daughter?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Mom, trapped . . . and you say I'm dramatic," Lindsey replied.

"If that bullet can't kill me, I don't think Lindsey can either," Mike replied.

"Funny," I replied.

"So . . . about this bullet," Lindsey prodded. I got up and left the room; I didn't want to listen to how Mike was going to explain how he almost died. I didn't need to hear it. It was bad enough that I had to see it.

* * *

"She's a nice girl," I said as I pulled off my t-shirt. The t-shirts and jeans were courtesy of Catherine deciding that my dark suits and white shirts weren't 'appropriate' attire for my convalescence. I liked them; no one had ever taken the time to pick out clothes for me. It was nice to be taken care of.

"Are you positive that you want to ride around in a metal coffin with wheels with my daughter manning the controls?"

"Cath, yes. I'll be okay. Lindsey will be okay. I want to make sure that she knows how to take care of a car. What if she blows a tire?" I replied as I carefully folded the t-shirt and placed it in the hamper.

"Well, worry wart. You're good with her," Catherine replied, "I think she may even approve of you."

"I love her mother . . . I'd like her to at least tolerate me. Right now, I'd rather not talk about Lindsey. I'd like to focus on making you a very happy, very tired woman," I replied as I unhooked her bra. I loved the lacy details; something so feminine hidden under the clothes of a ball-busting, take no prisoners, self-sufficient woman.

"Really, how are you going to do that, Michael Keppler," Catherine teased as I unbuttoned her jeans to reveal a matching lacy thong.

"I don't know. Do you want to find out?" I asked as I helped her step out of her jeans. I carefully picked her up and carried her to bed. I carefully trailed kisses down her neck, her chest, and abdomen. She trusted me. I was touched that after all I had done, she could trust me. Real sexual intimacy was based on trust; it was something I had never experienced before. I had walked in on Frank and Amy . . . and had gone unnoticed on accident. My ex-wife didn't trust me. We had Catholic, conservative, missionary position sex one to two times a month. There wasn't foreplay or cuddling afterward. It was fast and clinical, much like a business interaction.

Catherine trusted me in ways I didn't know were possible. She let me explore all of her body. Oral sex was all about trust; Amy trusted me enough once or twice. Catherine, on the other hand, she trusted me enough to make it a regular part of our love-making. She also knew what she wanted. Catherine was confident enough to guide my rather inexperienced hands. She was the best teacher I could ever ask for. My efforts were rewarded with orgasms that made my heart pound, my ears ring, and time and space stop. She seemed equally satisfied . . . jagged breathing and slightly tired, mostly euphoric.

"Jesus, Mike. Please," Catherine pleaded as I gently loved her. I loved how she would slightly arch her back . . . how she would say my name. She had a little devilish grin that would play across her pink lips.

"Please what, Catherine?" I asked as I continued to gently kiss her inner thighs.

"Love me," she said in a soft, hushed voice.

We moved slower than normal that afternoon. Rather than being fueled by a fiery passion, it was fueled by a gentle understanding. Slow, deep kisses came from lips that quietly whispered names and phrases of affection. Hands clung to bodies like they were holding on for dear life. Hips moved in synchrony to a slow, predictable beat. Time and space seemed to stop; the world was silent . . . everything outside of Catherine's bedroom ceased to exist. It was just her and me . . . loving each other as best we knew how to.

Her release was much more subdued than normal; whereas, my body felt like it collapsed in on itself. I couldn't move, I couldn't think, and I couldn't breathe. Catherine held me close to her. She said beautiful things I sometimes wondered if I deserved. Too soon, she would have to get out of bed and dress for work. Every night, I would watch her. I would creep up behind her and kiss the curve of her neck. I would silently thank whatever deity might be up in the sky for giving me another chance . . . a new life . . . someone that I wanted to be beside me for the rest of my life.


	8. Chapter 8

Lindsey was a surprisingly good driver. I had a feeling that she had her fair share of practice; her practice probably was a big part of what landed her in an all-girl boarding school. I had been in the passenger seat for four days. I had successfully converted her to a night shift schedule using the ploy that there will be less of your friends on the road to laugh at you for carting around an old man around. Lindsey shrugged and suggested we start around ten o'clock.

We mostly made small talk about school and her social life. Lindsey was surprisingly conversational and polite. She would occasionally comment that it had been a long time since Catherine had someone hang around long enough to move in. Lindsey gave the impression that there had indeed been many ill-fated relationships. She said that I seem to make her mother really happy.

"So, Mike, do you have any kids?" Lindsey asked as we made another loop around yet another suburb that looked the same as the previous ones.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"My ex-wife was too busy having kids with another man. She didn't even try to lie about it," I replied. I very well could have said that I knew marrying her was a bad idea from the get go, but I guessed that she would probably be more interested in the truth. In retrospect, there wasn't a time when I ever thought about kids. Amy and I were more concerned about getting married and finding jobs. My ex-wife had been way too busy fooling around with her boss.

"My dad was like that too. I love him, but he was kind of a scum bag," Lindsey replied.

"Sucks, doesn't it."

"Really sucks. All I really remember about my dad was that he wasn't there. You know ballet recitals, school plays and musicals, and those stupid little graduation ceremonies. Mom, Uncle Gil, and Uncle Nick were there, but I really wish I remembered something good about my dad," Lindsey rambled.

"I know," I replied.

"How?"

"My father died in a car accident when I was about four. It was three weeks before my fifth birthday. I don't remember him; I just remember than my mother forgot about my birthday that year," I replied.

"My dad died a few weeks before my birthday. He would have been too drunk or high to remember it anyways," Lindsey replied.

"Shitty way to grow up?" I asked.

"No, Mom is good. Tough, but good," Lindsey replied as we exited the subdivision and headed back toward the city.

"So what landed you in boarding school?" I asked.

"I fucked up. I was so pissed that my dad was dead that I started drinking, smoking anything I could find, and hooking up. Mom caught me stoned out of my mind in the process of hooking up with some guy whose face I don't even remember. I was about fourteen years old . . . was pretending that I was a lot older," Lindsey admitted as a slight blush crept into her face.

She was a tough girl; almost hardened. Lindsey rarely acted like she was sixteen; she would give me brief glimpses of her goofing around and acting silly, but for the most part, she seemed hardened . . . maybe restless. She seemed tired of her unpredictable life. For the past six days, Lindsey looked most happy when we made dinner together. It probably gave her the glimpse of the family-life she never really had.

"This thing with you and my mom . . . is it serious?"

"It is."

"Serious as in forever . . . 'til death do us part?"

"Maybe. That would depend on your mother being willing to put up with me for that long," I replied as Lindsey merged onto the highway.

"She would. You make her different . . . you make her eyes sparkle. No one has been able to do that," Lindsey replied, "You're decent to me. The others always treated me like crap . . . baggage."

"You're a good girl despite the cursing like a sailor and inability to change a tire," I replied.

"I think you're a good guy. Just let me know if you ever plan on breaking Mom's heart," Lindsey replied.

"I will. Where are you taking me?"

"Coffee. We could both use a cup of coffee," Lindsey replied.

"Aren't you worried it will stunt your growth?" I teased.

"My dad was five-nine and Mom is five-two . . . I'm five-five . . . I think I've maxed out my potential," Lindsey replied.

"Then coffee it is. So who is this Justin that picked you up this afternoon?" I asked willing to push my luck a little further.

"A dumb ass. He spent three hours talking about Halo 3," Lindsey replied, "He picked up in a mini-van."

"Ah . . . the fatal flaw. You could always focus your attention on school," I offered.

"What fun would that be? Come on, Mike. Let's go get coffee," Lindsey said as we pulled into a parking lot and she parked the car.

"My treat, kiddo," I replied as I got out of the car. It admittedly felt good to stretch my legs. Lindsey was immediately barraged by a group of teenage girls, who probably were breaking curfew. She told them that she was getting coffee with me. She introduced me as her 'almost, something like a stepdad.' It felt kind of cool.

After I paid too much for too little coffee, we loaded back into the car. Lindsey began her lazy laps around the suburbs again. I coached her through parallel parking. We finally decided to call it quits at three in the morning.

I settled into the living room and turned the television on. Lindsey reappeared in her pajamas and sat on the couch next to me. I randomly flipped channels until I got to _Funny Girl_. I remembered my mother always liking this movie. I remember myself always running away from the opportunity to watch it with her. Lindsey and I watched the movie in silence.

* * *

I walked through the front door and found Mike and Lindsey playing poker. Judging by the number of poker chips on each side of the table, they were fairly evenly matched. Lindsey said they were playing to determine who would get to chose their rest stop during their late night driving marathons. Mike kissed my cheek and said he'd make breakfast as soon as he wiped the floor with my daughter. To which Lindsey threw a pillow at him.

I shook my head and went to change. It had been a long time since Lindsey tried to befriend any man I brought home. When she was younger, she tried so hard. All my boyfriends bought her toys and video games. It was an easy ploy to get her out of our sights. Mike genuinely seemed to enjoy her company as much as Lindsey enjoyed his.

"Mom?" Lindsey asked as she pushed my door open. She closed the door behind her and sat on my bed.

"What do you need, sweetie?" I asked as I grabbed an armful of clothing as disappeared into my bathroom.

"I really like him. Please don't screw this up," Lindsey said, "He's a good guy. You know, cool to talk to. Doesn't treat me like I'm baggage."

"I know," I replied.

"I'm serious. He's good for you. We talked last night. He listens to what I say . . . I think he cares about it too," Lindsey replied.

Mike did have a way of looking deep into your soul when he was listening. He would quietly take in all that you would offer, then gently probe what you didn't. I felt like I could tell him anything. He made it very clear that he wouldn't judge me; he only silently asked for the same. Mike seemed to revel in the fact that this was a clean slate for him . . . maybe even a clean slate for me.

"I know, Linds. I really love him . . . it's different this time," I replied.

"Good because I want him to be my stepdad. He'll be good to me . . . already treats me like we're family. Even if he's totally embarrassing," she replied.

"Girls, breakfast is ready," Mike called down the hall.

"He made pancakes because I asked him to," Lindsey admitted.

"I have no doubt. It's his birthday on Monday," I said as I walked out of the bathroom.

"Good, that gives us time to plan something for him. I bet he would love if we took him out to a nice restaurant . . . since he's always cooking those fancy meals," Lindsey rambled.

"I think he might appreciate a quiet night at home even more . . . maybe a nice dinner in," I replied.

"No, Mom. Nice dinner out . . . cheesy presents. I bet he would like it if we were like a family for a night," Lindsey replied after she rolled off the bed.

"So it is, but you have to be my partner in crime. Complete surprise," I replied.

"He's going to love it!" Lindsey squealed.

I followed Lindsey down the hall. We ate pancakes and talked about her driving and the movie they watched last night. Mike teased Lindsey about ordering a soy no foam something or other. Both of them listened as I talked about work and a few of my cases. Mike promised to help me on my night off.

After breakfast, Mike and I retreated to my bedroom. He held me as I began to fall asleep. The world seemed so much simpler when I was in his arms. I felt safe . . . I felt at peace.

* * *

"When do I get you to myself for an entire day and night?" I inquired as I traced lazy circles on Catherine's stomach.

"I have the feeling I would have to fight Lindsey for your attention," Catherine replied with a smile.

"We just have a lot in common," I replied as I kissed her bare shoulder.

"Really?"

"Growing up in single parent homes . . . making stupid choices and having to live with them. The fact that we both love you," I replied.

"She's awfully smitten with you. This morning she warned me not to screw this relationship up," Catherine replied.

"Sounds like sage advice. I don't want you to screw this up either," I replied as I kissed the nape of her neck.

"I love you," Catherine replied as she snuggled closer to me.

"I love you, too. Catherine, I need to thank you again for giving me all of this. I don't think life could get better than this," I replied.

"Mike, please . . . just let me know if you ever get tired of this. You can hurt me, but please don't hurt Lindsey," Catherine replied with a long drawn out sigh.

"Funny, your daughter made me promise the exact same thing last night. I don't want to leave you or Lindsey. I was actually starting to think about ways to make our situation a little more permanent," I replied as my head began to pound and my hands began to sweat.

"Permanent?" Catherine asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Until death do us part. Making you my wife, Ms. Willows," I replied.

"Really. We haven't even known each other that long," Catherine replied.

"I know that I want to be next to you for the rest of my life. I want to watch you crinkle your nose when you are nervous . . . listen to Lindsey talk about school and boys. I want to wake up next to you every afternoon," I said.

"Well, Mr. Keppler . . . don't make any promises until you survive my daughter for an entire month and everything that comes with that month," Catherine said smiling.

"Bring it on, Ms. Willows," I replied with a laugh . . . knowing fully well that PMS did scare the hell out of me.

"So you are up for the challenge, Mr. Keppler," Catherine replied.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," I replied as I finally silenced her lips with a kiss.


End file.
